


É a vida, é bonita

by Laiska



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Introspection, Minor Violence, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 03:51:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18865141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laiska/pseuds/Laiska
Summary: After an innocent act of heroism erupts into a scandal, Lúcio starts to forget who he is, and what it was that brought him to where he is today. Life is a chaos, but through that all are the things that help us remember.





	É a vida, é bonita

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for "[Solta a Batida](https://luciofanzine.tumblr.com/)," a Lúcio fanzine.

Wind hissed over the railing of the rooftop balcony. Neon from the bright lights of the hotel marquee shining far down below splashed up onto his skin, pulsing across him in a kaleidoscope.

His shoulders heaved, breath condensing in a sigh. He turned until the small of his back pressed against the railing.

Lúcio was not himself. He hadn't been for several days. By now, he started to wonder if he ever would be again.

He stared down at a holographic screen, flicking idly with his fingertip and watching the same painful headlines roll past in a dozen variations.

He flicked again and minimized the reader. He had been warned not to follow the news, but curiosity got the better of him, again and again. Telling him to keep distracted was easy, but they could not stop his mind from circling back to the issue.

Furthermore, there was a bigger problem.

Tepidly, he touched another icon on the tablet. The screen expanded, and a projected soundpad sprung up.

Lúcio watched. The colours flashed on the virtual buttons at a steady BPM, like a dance floor, inviting his fingers to move. Entranced by the beat, he let the rhythm fill him. The drum loop soaked into his bones, and he felt something rising, like a wave about to crest. Instinctively, he reached out, ready to ride that wave...

Blaring. A synthesized horn screeched from the sample. The wave - and his concentration - broke. Calm returned to the sea.

He nearly threw the tablet.

They told him to keep distracted, but with _what_ , huh?

Wearily he pulled up his messages, listening as a car horn, harsh as the virtual, shrieked in the distance, and two people shouted to one another on the street below in something resembling Berber.

Zero new messages. It had been three hours, at least, since the notification saying that her morning stream was going live. By now, it would be around noon in Busan, and she was probably gearing up for another talk show or radio spot, or saving the world, or whatever they had her doing these days. He loaded the stream page, surely enough finding a banner with, 'Offline - Check back later!' in four different languages, below thick-lined clipart of a winking bunny.

Another swipe brought up their private chat. Three messages were written and immediately erased, before finally he jabbed at the screen, and struck 'Send':

 

 _'hey_ 🐸 _'_

 

He stared, waiting, but even after a short eternity, her status remained unchanged, no star appearing to mark the message as 'Read.'

He shoved the tablet into his pocket, and slumped down to the ground.

For another thousand years, he buried his face into his hands, knees drawn to his chest so that he could hear his own heart racing. For some centuries, he sat there alone.

Just before he thought he might crumble into dust, a bell rang, drawing him out of the inky pit.

The light on the corner of the tablet body pulsed. He swiped open the screen.

 

 _'sup loser?_ 😝 _'_

 

He half-chuckled, typing in reply,

 

_'are you busy?'_

_'i mean ive got some crappy interview to go to later but not really_ 🤷 _'_

_'got time for a call?'_

_'oh wait YOU wanna talk? in that case my schedules completely booked... l.o.l. just kidding_ 🤗 _gimme a minute to fix my makeup'_

 

He rest the tablet on his kneecaps, waiting, until a new window opened, and her face popped up on the screen.

"Hey, Hana." He tried his best to crack a smile.

"Lúcio?" Hana squinted at her screen. "Where are you, why is it so dark? Are you outside?"

"Yeah," he laughed, "I, uh, needed to get some fresh air to clear my head."

"Oh. Well, you look like garbage. If I knew that I wouldn't have gotten pretty for you."

The two stuck out their tongues at one another, laughing.

"So really, what's up?" she asked.

For probably the hundredth time that evening, he sighed, palm running down his cheek. "I don't know," he groaned. "You ever feel like, there's something broken in you? Like something missing? ...I think I've been sick to my stomach for three days now. Nothing feels right."

His face twitched, mouth turning and brows knitting. Something in his chest was trying not to topple. A plaintive look spread across Hana's digitized face.

"Guilty conscience?"

"...What?"

"I've seen the news, Lúcio. So, how'd your manager take it?"

It toppled.

The DJ tossed his head back, grimacing as it banged against a metal rung. He bit his lip and huffed, "Terrible. She was pissed."

"Well I mean, can you blame her? If I pulled something like that, my publicists would have my head."

"But how am I supposed to end up in that situation and not do something to help?"

"I don't know."

Of course Hana knew about it. _Everyone_ knew.

It was evening, a dark street in Bucharest. There were shouts from a side road, and a commotion out of the corner of his eye. His body had moved on its own.

When the situation was later pieced together during the official investigation, it was clear who was in the right. An elderly woman stood up for a local omnic who was being targeted by a group of so-called 'activists,' and ended up drawn into the fray. Without the DJ's intervention, she might have been seriously injured.

However, as a foreign citizen, Lúcio was later warned, he could have been charged with a civil offence and expelled from the country—or worse—had the situation gone otherwise. It was only lucky for him that the men responsible for the attack were in no position to press charges.

The incident was sealed, to little fanfare.

What was _not_ accounted for was the fact that a bystander was filming the incident, and, either impressed by the heroism or merely hungry for views, had uploaded it. Within hours, debates exploded, leaving Lúcio in the crossfire. Naturally, his PR team pressed to have the original upload removed, but it was already too late.

"Anyway," Hana continued, fiddling with her bangs, "It's not like you can change it now. So, just focus on your music and ignore it. It'll blow over."

A sigh eased from the very pits of Lúcio's chest.

"That's the problem. Since this whole thing started... I can't. This is what I mean. Every time I try and work on a song, some part of me just locks up. It's like I don't even know how anymore."

"I don't really know anything about music, but..." Hana chewed her lip in thought. "Have you tried just doing something else for a bit?"

"I wouldn't even know _what_ to do. Sorry, this is just weird for me. Whenever I get in a tough spot, music's what's always there for me. It's what calms me down. But now? It's like it's not even there."

"Well, I mean, even if you're good at music, it's not like it's just _there_. It has to come from somewhere."

"...What?"

He raised his eyebrows at the screen.

"I know that feeling, when you get in that zone and nothing else matters... But that doesn't just come from nowhere. Something has to put that inspiration in you... So what I'm saying is, where does your music come from?"

He was silent. It was a question he had been asked a thousand times on the airwaves, and suddenly he could not answer. His shoulders fell.

They talked for several minutes more, until Hana was called away, and again Lúcio was left with his thoughts.

Where did it come from?

The question haunted him the rest of the night, as he showered and went to bed. If he slept on it, he hoped, maybe the answer would come to him.

 

* * *

 

The answer did not come to him.

When the automatic shades of his suite rose in the morning to rouse him with a peek of sun, he was just as lost as the night before, his confusion only more obvious on waking.

After a begrudgingly eaten breakfast, he donned his sunglasses and a loose slouch cap that would conceal his distinctive locs, and pressed his headphones into his ears as he stepped out of the hotel room. Besides a meeting in the afternoon, the day was his. A walk would clear his mind.

A steady beat flowed through the music, drawing his steps into a pattern. He thought as he walked.

 _Where did your music start?_ He had been asked this a million times.

On the streets of Rio de Janeiro, he always answered. On dirt paths, in alleyways and on rooftop plazas.

He paused, and closed his eyes. Through the gaze of his younger self, he watched the scenes roll by, as colourful as they ever were, the origin of every song in his heart.

Yet, this time, there was something missing. The joy he usually felt in the memory was gone. Suddenly, they seemed a soundless pantomime, or else, a jumble of noise. Images of someone else's existence.

His home was his heart, and in the moment, that meant nothing to him.

He sat down upon the nearest bench. He had suddenly lost the will to walk.

He pulled his tablet from his pocket, turning the volume of the music up, and began flicking through another search of his name... instantly regretting it. The virtual yelling had not subsided, only mutated. Some applauded him for what he did. Some wanted the "rich" like him to keep their noses out of the problems of the common people, saying that if he were not a celebrity, he would not have gotten off so easily. The two sides fought with one another—and, like a fisher standing by a stormy sea, there was nothing he could do but watch, and wait until the eddies subsided.

 _Where_ did his music come from?

His mind, like that stormy sky, swirled in an ominous grey haze, too clouded to see a single thing.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon's meeting was grueling. What was supposed to be a conference to discuss his appearance at a charity function turned into a lecture, and then a roaring debate, over whether a 'troublemaker' like him, at the center of so much heated discourse, was the right one to be the face of the event, with arguments from the other side that his dedication to the people meant that he was the perfect candidate. The tide of conversation thrashed violently back and forth, and again he was just a buoy, bobbing at the mercy of their words.

He sat quietly, until it was all through.

In an empty hallway afterwards, he stood, his back pressed to the wall, sipping slowly on a chilled drink. It was silent but for distant voices, leaving him alone with his thoughts—until he heard the shuffling of feet.

Lúcio looked up. It was his local manager, looking stern within her frame of ombre hair. But then, she smiled.

"How's it goin', guy?"

He sighed, "It's... going. I guess."

"Look," she said, "I know things are pretty messy right now, and I know I was mad before, but I'm glad you're holdin' it together. That's more than most people can do."

"Yeah, I guess... Thanks." He smiled as much as he could muster.

"Cheer up, Santos." She patted him on the arm. "Anyway, I've got something for you."

From her pocket, she withdrew a small slip of folded paper, and handed it his way. He accepted it, eyebrows raised.

"Sensitive information," she explained. "Thought it'd be better to go analog."

He unfolded the paper. It looked to be a phone code.

"What's..."

"Apparently, someone's dying to talk to you. Seems like they went through a lot of trouble to try and get a direct line, so, I thought the least I could do is pass it along. Up to you if you wanna call."

Without any further explanation, she turned with a wave.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning," she said. "And get some real sleep tonight, you look like something the cat dragged in."

He thanked her again and headed out himself, the paper in hand. Who would want to speak to him that badly? Besides, well, every one of his fans. The real question was who had enough of a pull to get their message all the way up the chain.

The whole thing was horribly suspicious. Still, mysteries didn't solve themselves.

Back at his room again that evening, he stared down at his tablet screen, and took a deep breath. He plunked in the number in, and hit Call. The connection animation whirled. He waited.

Suddenly, the screen lit up again, showing a video feed. The picture was out of focus, and the sound garbled, a trademark poor connection. There was some shuffling, and what sounded like voices. Finally, a room with peeling wallpaper came into view, followed by an older woman's face.

"Is this working? Hello?" said the woman at first, squinting. Then, her eyes opened wide. "Come here!" she shouted to someone off screen. "It's him, it's Lúcio!"

"Oh!"

In the same moment, the DJ's own eyes opened in recognition. It was the old woman from Bucharest. Her cheeks were rosy, face creased now with joy. He smiled back.

"Hey there, how are you doing? And uh, how did you get my manager's info?"

The woman grinned. "I asked some friends, who asked some friends of theirs. We never got a chance to thank you for what you did, and my heart was hurting."

"We?" he repeated.

The screen tilted, and a flat, metallic face came into view - an omnic. The omnic held up a ball-jointed hand, the fingers bearing the marks of recent re-welding in several places.

Lúcio's smile widened again. That night, the last and only time he had seen the pair, the old woman's face was bruised, the omnic with his shielding stripped, and wires bare. A thankful far cry from now.

"I didn't know the two of you lived together."

"We didn't before," said the omnic.

The old woman smiled. "He was a hard one to convince, but I made him come stay with us. The streets around here are not the safest place for an omnic."

"Yeah," Lúcio agreed. "I could tell. Well, it's good to see both of you doing well. I gotta admit, I was a little worried about what might happen after I left."

"We were worried the same about you. Are you doing well?"

"I am. Well..."

The words began to flow. Lúcio explained what had happened since that night, and everything that came along with it. Those words trailed off as he caught himself, embarrassed.

"Sorry, wow, I didn't mean to dump all that on you." He shook his head. "Please don't think any of this is your fault or anything. I did it to myself."

The old woman thought.

"That is a tough situation," she said gravely. "I'm still sorry we troubled you. But, you know something. If you're doing the right thing, does it matter what other people think?"

Lúcio tipped his head, curious. The woman smiled warmly, and took the omnic's hand.

"When I told everyone what happened that night, they all said that I was crazy. And when I told them that Cezar here would be staying with me, they thought I really was. They said that after what happened to me, I should never trust anyone like him again."

"...What happened?"

She reached out of view, and then held a framed photo up to the camera. In the photo was a young boy, smiling, and what looked like a younger version of the same woman. Her eyes began to waver.

"My son. He was..."

The words escaped her.

"Killed. At the hands of a rogue omnic," Cezar cut in coldly. The woman nodded.

"No one could understand why I would ever help an omnic, not after what I lost. But Cezar, he was not the one who hurt my son. He has done nothing wrong to anyone." She smiled softly again, dabbing her eyes. "That night, I saw someone in danger, and I did what I could to protect him. You saw us both, and you did the same. If there is anyone who does not agree with the good you did, then they aren't worthy of even being heard." She grinned wide, and laughed, "Or maybe you're just as crazy as me."

A laugh burst from Lúcio as well.

The three talked a while longer, as though old friends. Lúcio agreed to come see them again, if he was ever in their city. Then finally, the hour drew late, and they said their farewells.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Lúcio took to the balcony of his room again, breathing in the cool air to clear his head.

In this world, there were many angry people. People who wanted things their way, and would hurt others to get it. But there were also those who saw joy and kindness, no matter what the world dealt them. It was those people who made the world go 'round, who kept the flowers blooming even after storms ravaged the land.

Even in the darkest shadows, there was a beauty, and that beauty was life.

Stories below him, somewhere far down on the street, a car horn honked. From somewhere else, one person called to another. Bridges rattled under foot traffic and neon lights splashed over his face.

Life was happening all around him, and it was chaos, but within that chaos was a pattern, the lighthouse, through the darkness.

He closed his eyes, and opened up his heart, and the rhythm filled him...

And then, he remembered.

And melodies exploded in his head.

"Right," he said softly, as the colours of life swirled around him, silent and bright and spectacular in a way he could never describe. "That's where it comes from."

He looked out over the city, and farther up into the sky. The city lights twinkled like stars.


End file.
